


Things That You Can't Say (Tomorrow Day)

by starsandgutters



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Swearing, canon-compliant up to Dream Thieves, pre-BLLB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:38:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4692356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'd think living with Noah you'd be used to it, but that's not the problem. The real problem is you're haunted by Adam fucking Parrish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things That You Can't Say (Tomorrow Day)

**Author's Note:**

> _I dreamt about you nearly every night this week;_   
>  _how many secrets can you keep?_   
>  **\- Arctic Monkeys, _Do I Wanna Know?_**

The unvarnished truth is that you're haunted.

You'd think living with Noah you'd be used to it, but that's not the problem. The real problem is you're haunted by Adam fucking Parrish.

Adam flits in and out of the edges of your life, because he's stupidly proud and won't move into Monmouth no matter how much Gansey begs him, and Gansey does beg, because Gansey is fucking enamored with Parrish.

You try not to weigh in on their discussions. You know both how much better and how much harder life would be if Adam moved in. The fact remains that a statue might change its stance sooner than Parrish would. Moot point.

Adam Parrish remains a reoccurring guest star in your routine. You see him by day, unless he's working one of the three jobs he works to be able to pay rent on that closet he calls his room ( _what a fucking tool,_ you think with longing). You don't see him by night, unless you're dreaming about him, which you do, quite often (you don't ever think about that).

You see him in the morning, biking to school with a nonchalance that you simultaneously envy and know is completely fake. You know his bike will be the only one in the parking lot amidst a sea of Mercedes and Chevrolet logos. You don't care; he pretends not to. You dangle a hand out from the window of your BMW, waving sullenly in the offer of a lift.

He doesn't see you (of course he doesn't). His cheeks are flushed pink with effort, earbuds wedged firmly in his ears as his legs piston on the bike pedals. He passes close enough to the gas station that you can see his thighs move with the effort of it, all lean, graceful muscle.

_Whatever,_ you think. You vow never to offer him a lift again. (You will).

When you see him next in school, he's still partly flushed, light brown hair windblown and falling in his face. You mess it up with your hand, pretending it's to annoy him. He's annoyed. You laugh. You don't tell anyone that for weeks now, you've wanted a chance to run your fingers through his hair, to see if it's as soft as it is in your dreams. (It is.)

Adam flits in and out of your life, but more in than out, drawn to Gansey and Glendower like you and the rest of your little motley crew; and that's dangerous. You get called  _snake_ and  _raven boy_ and  _creature_ , but you don't think you're anywhere as lethal as that surprised laugh Adam has when he's pleased.

It frightens you, and that makes you angry. It makes you angry because surely the others will be able to tell at some point, and then it will all be over. You try to hide it under venom and flint, hurling barbs at him when you feel your defenses go down. It's not his fault, but it doesn't matter. You can live with being an asshole. It's not like you can aspire to anything better.

It's a complicated balance, this one you're trying to strike: friendly enough to keep him in your line of sight, because you can't imagine him ever not being there (and God knows what Gansey would do); hostile enough to cover the evidence of your nighttime crimes, your dream transgressions. It's a tightrope walk, and it's only a matter of time before you fall.

He spends the afternoon helping you, Noah and Gansey move broken furniture out of Monmouth (Noah's mostly there for moral support). It's an unforgiving summer afternoon, and you all gasp for breath in the sweltering Virginia heat.

Adam puts down the end of the table he's holding, his red Coca-Cola shirt striped dark where it clings to his sweaty skin. He's lost weight again, you think; he's thinner, though not any less lovely.

_Lovely,_ you think, and gag at the word, feeling sick to your stomach, sick to your heart.

Adam pulls the t-shirt over his head, drying his face off with it before letting it fall to the table, and you feel the core of you knocked loose by the suddenly revealed expanse of pale skin, your heart beating off-kilter.

Adam's graceful neck slopes into a slender, freckle-dusted back ( _danger_ ) and you can see his hipbone where it peeks out of his jeans (he  _has_ lost weight) and Adam's chest is not muscular but it's  _compact,_ all nervous, sinewy strength ( _danger_ ) and his dark-rose nipples stand out in stark contrast with the light-gold rest of him and you can't take this, you can't take this, your heart betraying your secret to the world by its tempest hammering.

“ Hey, Trailer Trash,” you call out, because you're an asshole and you're one step away from hyperventilating with the weight of everything you can't have. “Put your shirt back on, will you? You're trailing Goodwill all over the table.”

Adam looks at you, his eyes narrowed and burning but the rest of him so hatefully  _calm._ Adam Parrish is always calm, and it makes you feel about three inches tall.

“ Fuck you, Ronan,” he says, but it's flat, no heat behind it, as if he didn't expect anything else from you (you've never given him reason to expect anything else). He puts his shirt back on, though, and your traitorous heart eases back into a less thundering rhythm.

When he turns to walk away – elegant, always elegant, and you hate that he can be so collected and graceful when you're the one who's dealt the blow – you see the tips of his ears are pink, and regret is a rusty spike through your chest. You know how proud he is. You know how this hurts him. But you'll probably do it again, because you're a coward, the worst kind of coward: a coward with a secret. A secret you're trying your hardest to forget you know.

Later that night, at Nino's, you both act like nothing happened, which is fine with you. You sit in the corner of the booth, absently toying with your glass of iced tea. Blue comes by to refill your drinks, exchanging a friendly jab or two with Gansey, and you see Adam's posture shift, leaning towards her imperceptibly. He probably doesn't even notice it, but you do, because you know exactly what it means. It's the same thing you do, when you're sure no one can see you. You do it to him.

Adam's blue eyes are naked in his wanting for her, the way he's captured by everything she says and does; when she leaves, his eyes follow her, an almost-pained frown creasing his forehead. And you understand, because you know that feeling, and you know how it hurts. You hurt for him and you hate him and you hate yourself for not being able to reach out and touch his hand like he did with Blue moments ago.

You go to bed and you drink yourself stupid, because you don't want to dream tonight, not even with the tantalizing promise of pulling some arcane object from your mind. The only thing you really want – truly, burningly, heart-shatteringly  _want_ – is not something you can pick out of your dreams.

You dream of him anyway, because your life fucking sucks. You dream of him as he was the night he finally left home, the night his piece of shit father robbed him of half his hearing, the night you beat the shit out of his piece of shit father. You dream him swaying dazedly on the dirt patch in front of his trailer. You dream his bruises, stark and violently purple on his delicate face; he had no bruises that night, but you remember all the ones he's ever sported, burned into your memory forever.

On your more wretched nights, you dream about plucking them off him with the touch of your fingers, your lips. That's how you know it's a dream. Your hands are not for healing; your hands are for destroying, because you're a sharp thing, all edges and claws.

_Kerah,_ calls Chainsaw, a moment before leaving her perch to come sit on your shoulder. You stroke her head gently, gently; trying not to hurt  _her_ , at least.

Noah's standing near the perch, where there was nothing a moment ago, and you almost jump right out of bed, startled.

“ Fucking _hell,_ ” you spit. “Would it kill you to cough or something?”

Noah coughs, pointedly.

“ Whatever.”

“ You could try talking to him,” Noah says, without further specification, because you both know who he's talking about.

“ Who the fuck are you talking about?” you ask, because you both know who he's talking about.

“ I'm just saying,” he comments meekly, raising his hands. “You'll never know for sure until you ask.”

But you do know for sure, because you're haunted by him, even when he's not actually there. You know for sure that Adam Parrish's easy, gentle smile is not for the likes of you. You know for sure that his hands are for sheltering someone small and delicate like Blue, not for tracing your back tattoo. You know for sure that no one at Aglionby, no matter how expensive their cars or how rich and sophisticated their family, could ever hope to hold a candle to Parrish's innate, uncomplicated elegance, to his quiet courage or his determination to be his own man.

His own, but never yours.

“ Quit that,” you say, “or I'll throw you out the window again.”

Noah disappears with an offended noise, and you're left alone with Chainsaw, which is just as well. Putting your headphones on, you lie back against the pillows and stroke her wings slowly, gently, butterfly-soft; though you'll never admit it, you're trying to teach your clumsy hands how to heal.

 


End file.
